In the Name of the Father
by jd517
Summary: SPOILER ALERT - My version of S5E1 - I was going to wait until Monday but the beans are all spilled in the magazines and interviews by now so I thought I'd put this up now.  Starts where series 4 ended up. Louisa's POV.
1. Love and Death

Disclaimer: Buffalo Pictures owns Doc Martin and all the characters and story lines. The song lyrics quoted in chapter 3 belong to James Taylor. I own nothing but my imagination.

Author's note: Beware – this story contains SPOILERS based on the internet rumor mill. Please stop reading now if you want to remain unspoiled. This is my version of how series 5 might begin. It does not reflect the ITV series 5 summaries.

Many thanks to Nicky for her beta skills, to Rob for issuing the challenge and for the whole crew at Digital Spy for supplying the rumors, photos from the filming and other tidbits that informed the writing of this story.

**In the Name of the Father**

**Chapter 1 – Love and Death**

"Watch it!" Martin exclaimed, scolding the long-suffering ambulance attendants who were busy loading the stretcher bearing me and my precious bundle into the back. "That's . . . that's my . . . that's my SON you've got there."

My heart burst with pride hearing him claim our baby in that way. It was a moment I had given up hoping for as my pregnancy progressed. Martin had seemed so distant and disinterested. Yet despite all we'd been through, here we were and Martin's words filled me with joy and warmth and happiness.

He stood, hovering really, behind the ambulance and suddenly it looked as though he had made a decision of some sort. He clambered up into the ambulance behind the attendant.

"I'm coming with you," he announced, in his authoritative London surgeon tone, daring anyone to try to object. The attendants by now were used to his bluster and just looked at one another and shrugged before climbing into the front seat.

"What about your car?" I asked.

"I'll call Auntie Joan and ask her to bring someone by to pick it up on her way to hospital – I've left the keys in it. I know she'll want to come and see him right away." He was talking to me but looking at the baby sleeping in my arms. He literally couldn't take his eyes off. In one fell swoop he was besotted.

X X X X X

"Now here we go, Mummy. That's right, support the little lamb's head. Careful, careful. Now we just put your other hand right here and there he goes. Oh what a sweet little lamb he is." The midwife was cooing as she demonstrated the proper position for nursing. The baby was sleepy and decidedly uninterested. Martin was pacing, looking anywhere but at me. I could see him struggling not to take over and at the same time mortified that he might see some of my naked flesh. I shook my head at this - for God's sake, he'd seen it all before anyway and he WAS a doctor.

"Is he latching on properly? He won't thrive if he doesn't establish a good latch."

"Martin, I think Dorothy knows what she's talking about . . ."

"That's right, Mummy. You're doing great. When he drifts off, you need to be firm and wake him up. That's a good girl. Cheerful, cheerful is the way to have a happy baby."

"For crying out loud, she's had a baby, not a lobotomy."

"Martin . . ."

The midwife gave him a black look. She was clearly exasperated with Martin, and I really couldn't blame her. He'd been pestering everyone since we arrived – shouting orders, second guessing, generally meddling and making a proper nuisance of himself. We were both relieved of course that the baby seemed fine despite his unorthodox arrival. But it was abundantly clear that getting Martin to accept that anyone else was capable of looking after our son was going to be an uphill battle.

"Martin, why don't you take a break from being his doctor and come and be his dad for a while," I cajoled, offering the baby who was now nestled in my arms, sound asleep.

He looked at me, startled. "Ah, yes." He took the baby from me and settled in the chair, his eyes glued to the sleeping infant. The midwife nodded, then wrote some more notes.

"I'll be off then, but Dr. Montgomery will be by to see you in the morning."

Martin made a non-committal sound of acknowledgement without really hearing what she had said, and I rolled my eyes at the prospect of seeing Edith Montgomery again. Well this ought to be the last encounter I would have with her. I couldn't speak for Martin, of course, but I had no intention of returning to her clinic as a patient.

"Thank you, Dorothy," I said as she disappeared out the door.

I smiled to myself, watching Martin gaze so lovingly at the baby. He lifted him to his shoulder and nuzzled his tiny head. Such a change had come over Martin in the last few hours. It was really remarkable how quickly he had fallen completely in love with his son.

He must have felt my eyes upon him, for just then he looked up at me and smiled gently.

"How's he doing, then?" I asked, softly.

"Er, fine. He's just fine." No mentioned of misshapen heads this time, to my relief.

"You know, we can't just keep calling him 'him' or 'the baby'."

"Hmm?" Martin looked up at me but he clearly wasn't paying me any mind.

"He's going to need a name."

"Oh, yes, I guess he will." Martin looked back at the baby. "Did you choose one in advance?"

"Well I had a few ideas but it's hard. As a teacher, of course, I see loads of kids, and some names get associated with specific ones, for good or bad. There's only one Peter, for example. And I can't imagine naming him Sam or Theo after the ones I've come across lately. And some names just lead to teasing on the playground. I wouldn't want to inflict him with Harry for example, or Richard."

"No I don't suppose you would."

"I was actually more settled on a name for a girl. I was reading Lewis Carroll with my class in London when I found out . . . you know, that I was pregnant? And I thought Alice would be a really good name. I pictured a little girl with your fair hair and your blue eyes and it just seemed right. Alice Glasson." I blushed, remembering how often I had thought about Martin and a baby who looked like him in those days, before I came back to Portwenn and had my hopes for reconciliation dashed.

A tiny frown crossed Martin's face and I wondered what was bothering him. Surely it couldn't be "Alice" – I mean a girl's name was a moot point now.

"I had been thinking of 'David' for a boy. It means well-beloved and I thought that would be a kind of tangible way of letting him know how much he was loved and wanted." I swallowed the lump in my throat as I said this. I had come up with the idea as I wept in my bed in the pub over the fact that Martin didn't seem to want our baby at all.

Martin examined the baby's sleeping face again without commenting, not giving away anything about what he was thinking.

"But I'd like to know what you think, Martin. Naming him is an important step. We should both . . . participate . . at least if you want to." I said this shyly. I could tell already that Martin's original concept of staying permanently away was no longer in the cards, not the way he was relating to his son. But what involvement he intended to have was still unclear.

"Thank you, Louisa."

I was confused. "What are you thanking me for, Martin? I haven't done anything."

"Yes, yes you have. Thank you for him. Thank you for letting me be here. I know you didn't want me involved, that you wanted to do this all by yourself. And I can't blame you. I mean, I'm no one's idea of proper father material."

"Well you're equally responsible for his being here, so I suppose I need to thank you too. Without you, I wouldn't be anyone's mum either. And I never said I didn't want you to be involved, I just said you didn't have to be involved. I mean the first thing you mentioned when I came back was an abortion. That wasn't exactly the reaction you'd expect from someone who was dying to be a father."

"Don't hold that against me, Louisa. I didn't mean I wanted you to have one. I was just shocked and overwhelmed. And since you couldn't bear to see me, couldn't even bear to be in the same village as me, it was very hard to believe you'd want to have my child." His voice was soft, and seemed to be filled with regret.

"Well, I never expected to find you'd moved on into another relationship so quickly. I mean I didn't have the right to expect you to be waiting for me to come back exactly, but finding you having a cozy tête-à-tête with . .. with THAT WOMAN surprised me more than I can say. And if you had moved on like that, it didn't seem like you'd want to be saddled with obligations to me and to our baby, not if you were planning a future with her."

Martin looked stunned. "What are you talking about? I wasn't planning a future with anyone. I hadn't moved on." He shifted, uncomfortably in his seat. "I still haven't been able to move on." He looked down at his shoes.

"What about Edith Montgomery?"

Before he could answer, we were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat.

"Dr. Ellingham?" A stranger in blue scrubs was standing at the foot of my bed. Martin was caught with his mouth open and was clearly beyond irritated at having his train of thought derailed. He turned his head briefly and barked. "Go away, you're interrupting."

The stranger ignored Martin's rudeness and waded in with a forced cheerfulness. "Dr. Ellingham? I heard you were here. Congratulations, by the way."

Martin nodded, but looked outraged at the intrusion. "What do YOU want?" he asked, gruffly.

"Might I have a word? There's been an accident."

Martin looked at me and then at the baby, puzzled. "What accident? You mean the taxi? They both seem to be fine, no need for enquiries."

"No, sir, not that. There's been a crash on the motorway. A patient has been brought in . . ."

"Well this is a hospital. If the patient is here then you haven't any need for a GP."

"It's just that in the patient's records you are listed . . ."

Martin cut the man off. "I'm listed as the GP for all of Portwenn, but I've resigned. My last day was yesterday. The new GP starts Monday – Dr. Dibbs I believe her name is. If you need any records, they are still at the surgery in Portwenn. My receptionist should be able to get them for you." He turned back to the baby.

"No, I'm afraid you don't understand. I came because you are listed as next of kin."

"What?"

"Mrs. Norton. Her records show you as next of kin. So we wanted to speak with you about her condition."

"Auntie Joan? What's happened?" Martin sprang from his chair, shifting immediately into his professional persona with speed that made my head spin.

The younger man looked discomfited and nodded his head towards me. I realised Joan's situation must be quite grave if he didn't want to discuss this in my presence.

"Martin, go see about Joan. Give her my love. We'll be fine." I reached my arms out to take the baby. Martin nodded and handed him over and as he did so I covered his big hand with one of mine and gave it a quick squeeze. He looked down at me, surprised at the contact. His eyes held mine for just a minute before he gently stroked the baby's head and then hurried away with the surgeon.

X X X X X

Two hours later, my eyes fluttered open at a muffled sound I couldn't quite place. It took a moment of trying to remember exactly where I was and why my body ached so, before the mother's radar kicked in and I realised the sleepless nights of parenthood had begun with a vengeance. I was instantly awake and anxiously peering into the baby's cot. I was relieved to see the baby, who really didn't seem like a David after all, sleeping quietly. Settling back, I finally noticed Martin sitting in the chair at the foot of the bed, his head in his hands, absolutely still.

"Martin?"

He lifted his head slowly, impossibly slowly, as if it weighed a ton. "Louisa." His voice sounded strangled.

"How is Joan?"

"She's gone."

"Gone home? Back to Portwenn?"

"No, Louisa, she's GONE. She didn't survive surgery." There was that muffled sound again, and I realized he was choking back a sob.

"Oh, Martin. I'm so sorry." I couldn't believe it. Not Joan. She was so lively, so full of energy. I couldn't imagine her being gone. I swung my legs to the edge of the bed and heaved myself up. Carefully I shuffled in the hospital slippers over to him and placed my hand on his shoulder. He flinched a bit, as though his grief were so tender that the merest touch was unbearable.

I perched on the end of the bed facing him. "Would you like a glass of water?"

He shook his head no.

I felt helpless in the face of such palpable sadness. The glimmer of a chink in his armour that I had felt this afternoon had disappeared and he seemed as remote and turned-inward as he ever had been. Like a turtle, he had pulled back into his shell.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

There was a long pause. Then in a quiet and choked voice he began.

"She and Pauline drove to that pub to pick up my car. They pulled out of the car park on the way over here with Pauline in my car and Auntie Joan right behind her in her pick-up. As they went around a curve, some idiot lorry driver with bad brakes smashed into the back of Auntie Joan's truck and pushed it off the road onto the verge, where it rolled over twice."

"Oh, Martin, that sounds awful."

"Pauline saw it happen and rushed back to help her. She called for an ambulance and found my medical bag in the back of the car. She's had some first aid training with the life boat crew so she went to help Joan. Joan was unconscious. Pauline found another driver who had stopped to help and the two of them got Joan out of the truck. It was quick thinking on Pauline's part because the petrol exploded and caused a fire."

"My God. Is Pauline alright?"

"She should be. She's in shock and suffered some second-degree burns on her hands and legs from the fire. She's been admitted downstairs for the night."

"Poor Pauline. But Joan. What happened to Joan?"

"Auntie Joan's pelvis was broken and moving her out of the car probably aggravated that. She also had massive internal bleeding from injury to her liver as well as from blood vessels damaged by the broken pelvis. The ambulance brought her in and she went immediately to surgery." Martin was clearly choked up now. "She . . . she never regained consciousness."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I reached out my hand to touch his but he immediately pulled his back. He was determined not to accept comfort, and that thought saddened me beyond belief.

"I asked if I could scrub in; she needed a vascular surgery team and I knew I could save her, I just knew it. But they wouldn't let me try. Against hospital policy to treat a relative. I had to watch Adrian Pitts do it, all the while knowing his faults, his weakness, his inexperience."

This had to have been the toughest blow of all. I remembered Adrian – how could I forget the night he operated on Peter Cronk. Joan's death would obviously have devastated Martin no matter what, but to have had it happen when she was coming to see him and for him to have been denied the chance to do for her what he had done so many times for the nameless, faceless hoards of patients he had treated was tragic and so bloody unfair. No wonder he was utterly gutted.

I was completely at a loss. The day that should be one of the happiest of my life was now one filled with pain. Joan was a good friend and I would miss her. More than that, though, was my pain at watching Martin suffer in such despair. I knew I loved him. I had only been kidding myself when I considered otherwise. And at that moment, watching him stare blankly at his hands, stifling his sobs and pushing me away, I was sure. I would do anything for him. If it took the rest of my life, I was willing to try to erase that pain and get through that armour.

But even so, I was not sure at all what I meant to him. He was clearly in love with his son, but his feelings for me remained a mystery. Did he want to be my doctor, my friend or my partner? Or just my former fiancée who sent his child support payments on time?

I turned back to the cot and lifted the sleeping baby to nuzzle his head. I whispered to him, "Daddy needs you now." I went to Martin and placed our son in his arms.

Martin looked surprised to find himself holding the baby. But with the confidence bred of eight whole hours of parenthood he lifted his son to his shoulder, carefully cradling the tiny head in his hand. The baby let out a startlingly big sigh and then nestled against Martin's chin. It was like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fitting together - the tall man with the big hands and the tiny baby, with the same blue eyes and fair hair. I took a blanket from the cot and draped it over the baby, patting his back.

Martin looked at me and I saw a hint of hope in his eyes. A sense of peace had settled over him. He needed this – to know that someone on this Earth loved him unconditionally, exactly the way he was. I took comfort in the fact that if I could not assuage Martin's grief, perhaps our son could.

"Louisa?"

"Yes?"

"You asked me before . . . about his name."

"Yes. Did you have some thoughts?"

"I want him to have my name. He's my son and I want him to know that."

"Another Martin? Hmm . . . we could call him Marty, I suppose, to tell you apart."

"Not Martin. I mean Martin is fine if that is what you want, but I don't have a problem with David or anything else you might choose. But I want him to be an Ellingham."

This was a shock. "I see. I hadn't expected that. I mean, I had just assumed he would be Glasson. He and I should have the same surname – it will make things easier here in the village, when you are back in London and it's just the two of us."

"But that's just it Louisa. I don't know what I'm going to do or where I am going to be, but wherever that is, I don't want anyone, including you or him, to think he's a fatherless child. I am his father. No matter what, I intend to be his father."

"Intentions are all well and good, Martin. But I know what it is like to be abandoned by a parent. My mum left when I was ten. I am determined to spare my son that pain. If you want to be his father, you have to mean it. It is more than just writing cheques and giving him a name. I need to know you aren't going to walk away from the two of us when things get difficult here or more interesting in London." I swallowed hard as I said this.

"Louisa, you're going to be with him always. He's going to know he's your son and that you love him. Here in the village, everyone will know he's your son regardless of what his surname is. I want him to have my name so he will know that he is my son, and that I love him. And so the village knows that too."

There was a plea in his eyes which resonated with me, but before I could formulate a reply, a very strange look came over his face.

"Louisa?"

"Yes?"

"I think he's moved his bowels."

I suppressed my urge to giggle. "Well, Daddy, do you think you're ready to give this parenting thing a go?"

To be continued . . .


	2. The Crying Game

**In the Name of the Father**

**Chapter 2 – The Crying Game**

"There's my sweet boy. Good morning! Up with the chickens today aren't we?" I was bleary eyed but the presence of my tiny son was immensely cheering and despite the early hour of his waking and the fact that he seemed to be both wet and hungry as well as fussy couldn't dampen my mood.

Suddenly Martin sat bolt upright in the chair where he had been sleeping. "Bloody Hell!"

"Martin! It's not his fault. He doesn't know what time it is."

"No, it's not that. You said chickens. I forgot about the damn chickens." He raked his hand through his usually impeccable hair and it stood on end.

"What chickens?"

"JOAN's chickens. Blast. Her place is probably overrun with starving animals and irate tourists looking for their tea. I need to go."

"Oh, Martin." I couldn't help smile at the thought of Martin mucking in as a farmer or a B & B host at Joan's.

Martin stood up and squared his shoulders. He was still dressed in his suit, and he hadn't as much as loosened the knot in his tie. "I have some . . . er . . . difficult calls to make. But don't go anywhere. I'll be back to pick you both up around, say, eleven."

"Oh. Your dad, then? You have to tell him about Joan?"

"God, no. I'll let the solicitor deal with that after the funeral. I told Dad he'd better not set foot within 100 miles of Portwenn when he was here last, at least while I'm here. But I do have to call the undertaker. And the vicar. And find out where my car was towed and where the removal company took my belongings. And find someone to look after the farm. And then I have to call Auntie Ruth. And I can't even think about calling Imperial yet – I've only two weeks until I am due to start there."

"Well the undertaker is Ronnie Clyde. He's a contemporary of Joan's and I'm sure he'll do right by her. Do you think Phil Pratt would help out at Joan's? He's the closest neighbor and I am sure he'd help Joan."

"Ah, well. He'd probably help Joan but I don't think he'd help me."

I got the picture. "Have you run into Jack Chester yet? He and his wife, Bea, have bought Danny's mum's place. They're a nice family – I have Jake and Jemima in year five up at school – and I am sure he'd be happy to help." I was thinking hard to find a farmer whom Martin wouldn't have alienated already, and it was difficult to do.

"Maybe. "

"Who's your Auntie Ruth?"

"Dad's youngest sister. She is quite a bit younger than Dad and Auntie Joan actually – they were both born before the war and she didn't come along until after Grandfather was demobbed."

"I see. I don't recall seeing her around here."

"No – she never liked the country. She's a Londoner. Completely mad – infuriating really. She's more like Dad than Auntie Joan is – er, was - though she's just as stubborn and bossy as Joan. I have to make the funeral arrangements first or she'll just take over and we'll get something weird and creepy."

I had been seeing to the nappy change while we were talking and our son, whom I had given up thinking of as Davy, was now in a better frame of mind. I handed him to Martin for a quick cuddle before he had to leave. Once again I was struck at how much more at ease Martin seemed when the baby was in his arms.

He reluctantly gave the baby back to my care after I was settled in the bed with the pillows arranged for nursing, my various body parts discreetly covered with a blanket so as not to offend Martin's sense of propriety. He leant down and kissed the baby's head and then startled me by kissing my cheek as well. My heart was pounding and I wanted to put my arms around his neck and kiss him properly. However, my hands were fully occupied with the baby and his breakfast, so a proper clinch would have to wait.

"See you later, then Martin," I said, wistfully.

He nodded and took his leave.

I looked down at my son, and said to him "so what are we going to call you, hmm?"

X X X X X

"Louisa?"

"Yes, Martin?" I looked up at his eyes in the rear view mirror from my perch in the backseat beside the baby.

"Can I stay at your place tonight? I went over to Joan's this morning but I don't think I can quite manage staying there tonight." His voice sounded ragged, and I could only imagine what it cost him to ask.

"Of course you can. I can't say how much sleep you'll get with this one around but you're welcome to stay as long as you like." Even as I extended the invitation I wasn't sure what he – or I - had in mind.

After carefully parking the car near my house, Martin came around to help me out and to carry the baby in his fancy new car seat. My original plan had been to borrow Darren's old one from my neighbors, Tina and Art Collins. But when I asked Martin to stop by and pick it up before coming to hospital, he had apparently decided to go out and buy a new, top of the line model instead. I suppose it made more sense for Martin to buy one than it had for me – he owned a car and I didn't. He had kept us waiting half an hour in the car park while he installed it in the Lexus and he seemed inordinately proud to be using it to carry our son across the threshold of home.

Although bringing baby home had seemed like a great and joyous occasion, the reality of caring for a helpless and demanding newborn without the aid of the hospital staff sunk in rather quickly. Feed, change, wind, cuddle, and then start all over again. Our son certainly had a pair of lungs on him.

The baby had peed on Martin's tie, spit up on his jacket, and had a nappy blow out on the knee of his trousers. To his credit, despite his obvious frustration over these events, Martin soldiered on and just muttered about the dry cleaners. By midnight we were both exhausted and at our wits' end.

We had managed to quiet the baby and put him to sleep in his Moses basket next to my bed. I was dying to go to sleep and suddenly realized that I hadn't given much thought to the not insignificant issue of where Martin intended to sleep himself. As I cleaned my teeth and slid shapeless maternity pyjamas over my still-swollen body, I realised I didn't bloody care. He could sleep standing up like a horse as long as he didn't keep me from my own rest.

When I returned from the lavatory, I was surprised but relieved to find Martin sitting on the edge of my bed in pyjamas of his own, simply gazing at the baby. I was suddenly self-conscious about how I looked. I wished I had the energy to primp but all I could think about was closing my eyes.

Martin turned to me as I slid into bed. Without a word he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me back against his chest. It felt familiar and so natural, as if the previous nine months had never occurred. I let out a contented sigh and was asleep before I could say good-night.

**X X X X X**

Somehow we got through Sunday. Martin met with the undertaker and the vicar and made a seemingly endless series of additional calls on his mobile. He made two trips to the farm – one to meet Jack Chester and go over the farm chores and the second to return Buddy who had stowed away in the Lexus on the way back. I would have been fine with having Buddy to stay, at least temporarily, but Martin was adamant that the dog's lack of hygiene would be harmful to the baby and so I left him to it.

From the kitchen window, we watched the commotion caused by the new doctor setting up shop in the surgery across the way. It was going to be so strange seeing that building with a new occupant. Martin was very closed-mouth about it as usual, and we had no opportunity to discuss his plans for his career and his move to London.

We weren't any closer to agreement on what to call our son either. I had given up on David – even I couldn't bring myself to call him that now that I had met him. Martin responded every time I called the baby "Marty" so that seemed out too.

"Martin, what if we named him after Joan?"

He looked up from the vegetables he was chopping. "Joan? For a boy?"

"Well a variation. John, maybe?"

Martin looked pensive. "I like John but we can't use it. Not to honor Joan. There would be . . . gossip. Jonah? Would that be better?"

"God, no. Not in a fishing village. He'd hear no end of teasing about his whale."

"Hmm. Hadn't thought of that. We could call him after you – Louis. I like that one." He gave me a small smile with this one.

"Like Marty, I think it would be too confusing to have Louis and Louisa in the same house."

Before we could go on any further, our unnamed son began squalling and the task was once again set aside.

X X X X

The funeral was set for Tuesday to give Martin's Auntie Ruth a chance to get down to Cornwall. On Monday afternoon, we set off for the shops with the baby in the enormous blue pram that Bert Large had given me at my baby shower. I needed something suitable to wear to the funeral, we needed to restock the larder, and Martin wanted to pick up some things from Mrs. Tishell. While I popped into the dress shop, Martin took the baby over to the chemist's and I agreed to meet him at Bert's restaurant in half an hour so we could plan the funeral lunch and enquire about Pauline.

When I came out of the dress shop with my parcel, I saw that the pram was still parked outside Mrs. Tishell's and so I wandered over to see if I could catch up with Martin. After gushing over me and telling me how adorable my son was, Mrs. Tishell did get around to telling me that Martin had raced off towards the surgery a few moments ago at the request of Joe Penhale.

Wondering what on Earth was going on, I started up the hill towards the surgery until I met Joe Penhale. I was shocked to see that our illustrious policeman was carrying my son. Martin hadn't been very happy having the midwife or the paediatrician handle the baby so I couldn't begin to imagine the circumstances under which he would entrust him to Penhale's care, knowing as I did his regard for our constable.

"Joe? What's going on? Where's Martin?"

"Don't you worry, Louisa, everything is under control." As he drew nearer, I snatched the baby out of his arms, to reassure myself that he was fine.

"But what happened?"

"The new doc, that is Doctor Dibbs, had an accident. Doc Martin is looking after things until the ambulance arrives."

"Oh, my. What happened to her?"

"I'm not authorised to disclose that; not to a civilian."

"Fine. " I tried to control my frustration. "Will you just get the pram for me then? I'll go up to the surgery and ask Martin myself."

X X X X X

What a mess! The new doctor had broken a rib and punctured a lung by falling off a ladder. What she was doing on the ladder Martin had not bothered to tell me. After an immediate diagnosis and another miraculous life saving procedure, Martin had summoned the ambulance and sent her off to hospital, with her practice manager/husband in tow. The patients had somehow convinced Martin to take over the afternoon surgery list so the baby and I were on our own for our visit to Bert's. I swallowed hard when I heard Martin bellow for Pauline, almost automatically, then catch himself and find the patient's notes on his own.

I had come to the Large Restaurant make arrangements for Joan's funeral lunch, but that was set aside for a while as Bert fussed over my son and tut-tutted over his lack of a name. The fact that so much had happened in the last forty-eight hours was not lost on Bert of all people, who had been close to Joan and who also was faced with Pauline's injuries and Al's angst over them. Pauline had been released from hospital on Sunday and managed one night at Bert's before declaring she needed to get away from Portwenn to clear her head. She had taken Joan's death extremely hard and felt the village would blame her for not being able to save Joan's life. With a heavy heart, Al had driven her over to Plymouth to spend some time with Elaine and Greg. I knew her absence would break Bert's heart as well as Al's and hoped Pauline would make a speedy recovery and return to her home in Portwenn soon.

Martin went straight from the surgery to the railway station at Bodmin Parkway to retrieve his Auntie Ruth. He got her settled at the farm before coming home, so the evening was nearly gone by the time we were reunited.

The cheesy pasta I had thrown together for sustenance between parenting tasks was not up to his gustatory standards and he had a very cross look when I offered it to him. I was hurt when he implied that my sloppy eating habits would fail to provide proper nutrition to our son, but I bit back my retort, in the knowledge that he had too much to figure out right now to think about tact.

I persuaded him to sit down on the sofa and hold the baby. He let me rub his shoulders a bit and the back of his neck and I felt him relax. I wasn't sure if it was my presence or the baby's but I was glad he had found something of a refuge after all he'd been through today. Despite the fact that we still hadn't talked about "us" or named our child or discussed his career plans or addressed any of the myriad of topics that hung unresolved like bubbles in the air between us, I couldn't help but feel a cozy closeness being with the two most important people in my life. We three were quickly becoming a family whether we intended to or not.

When the baby started to fuss, I took him to feed him. Martin still looked away pointedly while I arranged myself. His sense of propriety was positively archaic, particularly for a doctor. While the baby ate hungrily, Martin warmed up some tinned soup and sliced some apples for his own supper.

"Are you ready? For tomorrow, I mean?"

He looked up from his meal. "As ready as one can be, I suppose. No one looks forward to something like this."

"How is your Auntie Ruth taking things?"

"As you would expect. Ready to dive in with some mad plan – I wouldn't be surprised if she got up to recite some verse in the original Greek in the middle of the sermon."

"She sounds like quite a lady – I am looking forward to meeting her."

He made a moue of disgust and went back to his supper.

"I've been thinking about names some more."

"Hmm?"

"What about Jory? It's a nice Cornish name. Not fussy."

"For a boy? Not very masculine. And why a Cornish name?"

"Well he is a Cornish boy," I pointed out, with something of a pout. Despite his declaration that the baby's Christian name could be Martin or David or whatever I wanted, he wasn't being very cooperative.

"Edmund. That's a good English name. Edmund Ellingham"

I ignored the surname debate, leaving that for another day. "Edmund? That sounds like somebody's grandfather. Not a very modern name. I'd rather have something more current – Oliver maybe? Or Noah."

"Oliver is modern? Sounds Dickensian to me. And Noah is as old as the flood."

And on it went. He thought Gary was a lout, Neil was a prat, and Tony was a git. Alexander would never learn to spell his name. Martin had an objection to every name I came up with. His only suggestion was William.

"So baby, do YOU like William?" Our son screwed up his face and bawled and that was the end of William.

X X X X X

Somehow we got through the funeral. Martin had put up double the usual amount of psychological armour and you risked a tongue-lashing if you got within ten feet of him. His Aunty Ruth WAS a bit peculiar but did not make much of a scene, other keening incomprehensively in Gaelic as the casket was carried out, much to Martin's disgust.

The villagers turned out in force – Joan was beloved by all and everyone wanted her to have a good send off. They were less sure what to make of Martin as mourner-in-chief and of course they were all bursting with curiosity at what he was still doing in Portwenn, what was going on with me, and why the baby didn't have a name yet.

He looked positively shattered. On top of his own grief, he was forced into playing host and also enduring the attempts of the well-meaning to comfort him. After watching him uncomfortably shake hands with some of the mourners, I had an idea. I whispered to Bert and a couple of others that they should really be consoling Ruth. She reveled in the attention and that gave me the chance to pull Martin outside.

"Are you alright? Can I get you anything?" I asked him.

"No. Nothing." He leant against the wall, looking like he needed it to hold him up.

I lifted the baby out of the pram and carefully transferred him to Martin's arms. Both father and son seemed to visibly relax at the contact. Martin tucked the baby up under his chin and rested his face against the tiny warm head. I patted them both.

"Take as long as you like. There's a nappy and a bottle in the pram if you need them. I'll go in and make sure everything's under control."

The look he gave me spoke volumes of relief, and gratitude and maybe even love.

X X X X X

As we walked slowly back to my cottage after the funeral and the lunch, Martin told me a little more about Doctor Dibbs and her accident. She'd be out of commission for six months or so and the PCT was in a real bind. Chris Parsons had called and asked Martin if he would consider taking the post temporarily while she recuperated.

"How would you feel if I stayed in Portwenn for a bit? It would give me a chance to sort things out at the farm and give you a hand with the baby."

"Well I'd be happy to have you in Portwenn if you are happy being here. But what about London, Imperial? You worked so hard getting over your phobia. Will they hold the job in London for you?"

"Chris thinks he can persuade them. Paradoxically, it is apparently easier to find a temporary vascular surgeon than a GP willing to come to Portwenn for six months. He thinks he can get some American to come over and cover at Imperial if I agree."

"Well that would be wonderful." I didn't know how to articulate my joy at the chance to try again to build a relationship with Martin, with the shared love for our son a new mortar to hold us together.

"If you're sure you won't be unhappy about this, I'll call Chris in the morning."

"As long as you're happy, I'll be happy."

He looked at me and then took my hand in his and held it. There was a hint of a smile on his lips as he pushed the pram with his other hand. All was well. As we turned the corner toward my door, he leant down and kissed me softly on the lips.

I heard a wolf whistle and my eyes flew open, looking wildly for the roaming pack of teenage girls. I saw no one until I looked at the door of my own house. There a woman in a wild gypsy skirt sat perched on a suitcase. Martin gave me a quizzical look and I shrugged.

"So is this the grandson I've been hearing about?" asked the woman.

I looked at Martin as my heart leapt in my throat. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

"Mum?" I asked incredulously.

To be continued . . .


	3. Parenthood

**In the Name of the Father**

**Chapter 3 – Parenthood**

"What do you mean, he doesn't have a name yet? That doesn't sound like you, Louisa. Always so conventional and so . . . so oraganised."

I gritted my teeth. It was bad enough that Mum had shown up like a bad penny, at the worst possible moment. That was her way and I shouldn't be surprised although of course I was. But having her criticise my parenting was enough to put me right over the edge.

"He'll have a name. There has been a lot to deal with the last few days and Martin and I are still discussing it."

"Well, I'm going to call him Carlos."

"CARLOS?"

"After your second stepfather. He was my one true love, you know."

"I hate to break this to you Mum, but I haven't had any stepfathers. You never did manage to divorce Dad."

"Well the details don't matter. Carlos was my one true love and now this little one will be Carlos too. Life is too short to wait around for you two to stop dithering."

Martin gave her a black look.

I looked at him, willing him to rescue me. I hadn't seen Mum in seven years; not since she showed up, uninvited and unannounced as usual, at my thirtieth birthday do. And I really did not need to deal with her, not now, not with everything else swirling around me. The baby was bound to wake up any second, wet and hungry, Martin was still grieving and needed some tending, and I was exhausted and ready to burst if the baby didn't eat soon. Never mind the added burdens of adjusting to motherhood, sorting out my relationship with Martin, and deciding on a name for my son.

Martin looked at me and then at Mum and then abruptly left the room without a word. Great. Leave it to him to misread my plea for help and abandon ship altogether.

"May I hold him?" Mum asked.

"Well, I suppose. He may be wet."

"That's no problem, is it Carlos? Not with Grannie. No, it's not!"

It was like fingernails on a chalkboard hearing my mother fuss over my baby and call him that. Having her declare that Spanish playboy her one true love wasn't helping her cause much.

Her ministrations woke the baby and he started to squall. I took him from her arms and rummaged around for a clean nappy, all the while wondering what Martin was doing and envying him the quiet he was enjoying whilst doing it. Mum was flapping about, her gypsy bangles clinking while she gave imbecilic instructions about not sticking him with a pin.

"Mum, give it a rest. We don't use pins anymore." I got the baby sorted and myself situated so I could feed him. He had just settled in to nurse when Martin came back. He averted his eyes when he saw what I was doing, and I was afraid he was going to leave.

"Martin, for heaven's sake. I am not going to be embarrassed about feeding my child in my own home."

"No, no of course not." He seemed chastened. I waited for him to disappear again. I was surprised instead when he turned to Mum.

"Mrs. Glasson."

"Call me Eleanor, dear. We're family. Or practically, anyhow."

Martin was not deterred. "Mrs. Glasson have you got your case?"

"Yes, it's right there by the door. Are you taking it somewhere? "she asked, hopefully.

"Yes. I've just been on the phone with Mark down at the pub. I've booked you in for a week. It is all arranged. If you have your bag, I will carry it over for you." And with that he quite unceremoniously opened the door and walked out carrying the case.

My heart swelled with gratitude as I watched my mother scramble to keep up with my knight in shining armour.

X X X X X

The surgery waiting area was chaotic when I arrived with the baby around half-ten. We had been for a lovely walk along the Platt. I had the idea to stop in and see how Martin was getting along, and maybe catch up with a cup of tea. I had no idea what I would be getting myself into.

The waiting patients all wanted a glimpse of the baby, who was sleeping quietly in the pram, and of course to pepper me with questions. Was Martin staying in Portwenn? What happened to Dr. Dibbs? Were Martin and I getting married? And, of course, what was the baby called? Thinking this may have been a bad idea, I was considering slipping out the back door when Martin emerged from his consulting room.

"Louisa! What are you doing here?" He looked harried but his voice was warm and I hoped he was glad to see us.

"Oh we were out for a walk and I thought we could stop by and see how you were getting on."

He was rummaging in the file cabinet, putting away one patient's notes and scrabbling for the next one.

"I'm, er, managing. " He looked down at the baby, sleeping in the pram, and his face grew soft with the hint of a smile. He picked up the baby and managed to do it without waking him. He motioned to me with his elbow.

"Come through."

When I followed him in and closed the door, he sat in his chair and focused intently on his son. The telephone was ringing, there were loads of patients waiting, and there was a pile of papers on the desk he was borrowing from Doctor Dibbs, but he took this moment just for the two of them.

The telephone started to ring again.

"Pauli . . ." he started, automatically. "Oh. " He looked over at the telephone with some dismay. "I am never going to see any patients if I have to keep answering the phone and doing my own filing. And I've been looking for a cup of tea since 10." He sighed then picked up the phone. "Portwenn Surgery. Yes. No, this is Doctor Ellingham. Gone. Yes. 4 o'clock." He slammed down the receiver.

"Martin, why don't I make you a cup of tea. I can park the pram in the sitting room and let him sleep in there and you can see your patients. As long as he's sleeping, I can see what I can do about answering the telephone too."

He looked stunned. "Are you sure you're not too tired?"

"No, I can manage. And the quicker you get done here, the quicker we can all get home."

So off I went to the kitchen, to see if I could find any tea things, and thus I embarked on a new temporary career as the practice receptionist.

X X X X X

At half past four, Martin's Auntie Ruth sailed in. I had just sent Mrs. Ash through to the consulting room and she was the last appointment of the day. I had a small pile of messages for Martin, three sets of notes to file, and two blood samples for the medical courier to take to the lab.

"Hello, Miss Ellingham."

"Miss Glasson! Why I must say I didn't expect to see you here."

"Er, just helping out today."

"Tsk, tsk. Shouldn't you be looking after my grandnephew?"

"He's just through there, sleeping. I can hear when he wakes up." I bristled at her accusation.

She sighed. "Am I to be permitted to see my nephew? I have important business to discuss with him."

"He is with his last patient. If you'll just have a seat, I'm sure he won't be too long."

She sniffed again. She wasn't particularly friendly. Not like her sister in that way.

"I was thinking of putting the kettle on. Could I interest you in some tea?"

She nodded curtly, settling her enormous black handbag on her lap.

Just then, Mrs. Ash came out, coughing a little dry cough and rubbing her red nose, followed by Martin with her notes.

"Rest and fluids should do it, Mrs. Ash. No need for an antibiotic for a viral illness."

Mrs. Ash nodded grimly. "Louisa." She gave Auntie Ruth a curious glance and was on her way.

"Martin, your Aunt was hoping to speak with you," I started as Ruth Ellingham glided through to the consulting room without greeting her nephew or waiting for an invitation."

"Right." He looked after her.

"Shall I bring you a cup of tea? She's already asked for one."

He looked back at me. "Erm, yes, thank you. That would be good." He gave me a thoughtful look before turning to join his aunt.

While they chatted I managed to get the kettle going for some tea. Just as I was about to pour, I heard the unmistakable call of an unhappy baby. Setting down the kettle, I went to the sitting room and retrieved my son.

"Mummy's here, little man. Everything is just fine." I cooed to him, marveling as always at his tiny perfect hands and his sweet face and the soft baby smell of his head. I changed him and then went back into the kitchen where I sat at the table with my cup of tea while I fed him. Martin and Ruth seemed to be taking a long time.

The baby must have swallowed a big air bubble because he soon became fractious and no amount of bouncing on my shoulder would bring up the wind. He squirmed at first, and then began to fuss. It didn't take long for the mewling to build into full-fledged howls.

Martin came out immediately and saw what was going on. He took the baby from me and made his own efforts to calm him while I poured tea for Martin and Ruth. Martin succeeded in extracting a big belch along with a stream of spit-up out of the poor tummy and the sobs became whimpers and then tapered off to quiet sighs. With a look of relief, I took the baby from Martin's arms and gave him a good cuddle.

"Well, really, Martin. Just look at that mess on your suit."

"It's fine, Auntie Ruth." Martin looked at his soiled jacket with resignation before taking it off and laying it aside for the cleaners.

"Mark my words, you're coddling that baby. Really, Martin. Children should be seen and not heard. That's what we said in my day."

"I hardly think . . ." I protested.

"Not a way to run a practice. Not with a squalling infant drowning out what the patients have to say."

"Just a minute . . ." Martin looked agitated too.

"If you cuddle him when he cries, it will just teach him to cry more. Better to ignore him."

By now I was livid – in full mother-bear mode. "He is less than a week old. Time enough for lessons in deportment when he gets older. Right now, my priority, and Martin's, is to assure him that he is safe and that he is loved." I looked at Martin when I said this, hoping he would back me up. We hadn't actually discussed parenting styles as yet.

"Auntie Ruth, I think you'd better be going. Louisa and I need to clear up here and get the baby home. I'll ring you tomorrow after I've had a chance to read the papers from the solicitor."

He wordlessly took the teacup out of her hand and ushered her to the kitchen door, ignoring her rising indignation.

"You'll regret raising the child this way. Only unhappiness follows when the child rules the home."

Martin firmly closed the door behind her. "Horrid old bat," he muttered.

I could only laugh at that. "I'm relieved you don't agree with her, her, her METHODS, Martin."

He took the baby from me and gave him a good cuddle. "No. Her methods are far too close to those of my parents." There was a look of determination in his eye I hadn't seen before.

X X X X X

Martin was just coming back from an emergency home visit to Mrs. Ash, when the baby woke for his two a.m. feed. I had just retrieved him from his bassinet and unbuttoned my nightdress when Martin entered the bedroom.

"Oh, you're up. Shall I . . . that is, do you need anything – either of you?"

I looked up at him. "Martin, there is no reason for you to act like this when I am feeding the baby. Can you please just relax?"

Abruptly he sat down on the bed beside me. While not over his embarrassment or shyness entirely, he was also clearly interested in what was going on. Whether it was a personal interest or merely a clinical one I couldn't tell. When I switched sides, the baby was now facing towards Martin, who put one arm around my shoulder and dropped his head to watch the baby intently. When he looked back at me, there was wonder and amazement in his eyes and I felt oddly proud and tender.

"How did the home visit go?"

He sighed. "It's extremely inconvenient not to have the patient notes and my supplies at hand when I am called out like that. I had to go to the surgery to get my notes, go to the patient's home and make a diagnosis, go back to the surgery for the nebulizer once I'd determined it was an asthma attack, and then go back out to her home again – I was lucky she was right here in the village. I'd still be chasing back and forth if the patient were one of the more remote residents. I'm really wondering if this is going to be feasible, living here I mean."

"I see." I was shattered. Just as we were getting along so well, he wanted to move out.

"I mean there are inconveniences about living at the surgery too. A loss of privacy when patients are there, of course, and having the phone ring at all hours. It's farther for you from the school. But it has a much bigger kitchen than here, and the bedroom is bigger – we wouldn't be tripping over the bassinet."

It was beginning to dawn on me that I hadn't understood him completely.

"Do you mean you'd want us ALL to move over there? You're not just thinking of leaving yourself?"

He took my hands. "I know it is a lot to ask of you to move house. And if you say no, I'll find a way to manage living here. But I don't want to leave you. Either of you." There was an earnest look on his face. He cleared his throat, and then busied himself with the baby so he could look away.

"Well I've never particularly loved this place. It IS nice to be together. Easier with the baby, I mean," I stammered, not quite sure how to take this. Somehow it wasn't how I had imagined Martin asking me to move in with him.

"Please say yes."

"Yes, Martin. Yes, I will."

X X X X

We'd had a long night. In addition to Martin's medical emergency call out, he'd had two other calls from patients and the baby had been up hourly. No one was in a particularly cheery mood in the morning, and I suspected that packing up to move house wasn't going to improve my outlook one bit.

Over porridge and toast, we started in on the name discussion again. This was probably not a great idea in our present state of mind but it was something that just had to be done. A baby name book Mrs. Sparrow at the post office had oh so helpfully handed me when I went in to mail some letters had suggested trying to imagine the adult your child would become with the names you were considering. Martin seemed skeptical but was too tired to argue about it much.

"What about Gerald? How do you envision our son growing up if his name is Gerald?"

"Gerald. Gerald sounds like a policeman," Martin said dismissively.

"Well you make a suggestion, then," I countered.

"Charles."

"Charles? He'd be a Tory MP with that name. Not exactly what I had in mind. Timothy?"

"No! Every Timothy I ever knew became a clergyman."

I buried my head in my hands and Martin took this as a sign to go to work. As he left, he stroked my shoulder for a moment and scrutinized the baby's face. "Henry? Does he look like a Henry to you?"

X X X X X

We had a long evening, packing and hauling a few suitcases as a start on moving over to the surgery. Martin had cooked a simple supper of mackerel and aubergine while I made up the bed and dug out the baby's essentials. As we sat down at the table in the surgery kitchen, I had a sudden memory of our first dinner there; he'd cooked dinner that night too. I smiled and hoped he remembered that night as well.

We'd eaten only a few mouthfuls when we were interrupted by the baby's cries. I hoped that a dry nappy and his own supper might settle him down but tonight he seemed inconsolable. When I gave up trying to feed him, Martin came over to take him. He paced in a circle – from the kitchen to the sitting room, through to the surgery waiting area, then back around to the kitchen. He spoke to the baby in low tones and bounced him on his shoulder.

Eventually Martin gave me a helpless look, and I settled in to see if the baby would nurse now but he just arched away from me. "Martin, is he alright? It seems odd that he isn't eating."

"He isn't feverish. Let me examine his belly."

Martin quickly concluded there was no obvious medical reason for the baby's distress. "I think it may be colic, Louisa. Not much we can do for that but wait it out."

I cuddled our son in my arms and tried to quiet him. Martin went out of the room and came back with a book and started reading aloud. I was pleased at the effort but not too sure that the British Cardiology Society's book of the year was going to have the desired effect.

Martin's deep voice did seem to soothe him somewhat. The baby didn't stop crying altogether but he did seem less frantic. Gradually he seemed to calm down. The effect was immediately lost, however, the moment we tried to set him down in his bassinet.

With a sigh we traded places – I read from the Year 3 science curriculum while Martin cuddled him. We tried putting him in the Moses basket and the pram and the car seat. We even put the car seat on top of the clothes dryer and turned it on, a trick Maureen had assured us worked with both of the twins. Martin drew the line only once – at my suggestion that he strip off his shirt and cuddle the baby next to his skin as one of my books advised for enhancing the parent child bonding experience.

The baby was still crying at midnight. His tiny, tear-stained face was hot and red and his little limbs flailed. We knew he must be exhausted – we certainly were. We went upstairs and got ready for bed. Once again I tried to nurse him but he was too agitated to eat. I felt utterly defeated as a parent and I was less than a week into it.

Martin was looking around the room for inspiration. "Music?" he asked me, pointing to the clock radio on the bedside table.

"It's worth a try. Something soothing, I guess."

Martin slowly turned the dial and scrolled through a Wagnerian opera, the weather report, something that sounded like Arabic and Procul Harem's Whiter Shade of Pale, none of which seemed to placate the baby. I was about to give up hope when he came across a quiet, deep voice singing with a guitar. A song I hadn't heard in years. As the man sang about the cowboy and his horse, the baby's howls quieted to soft mewls and then to mere hiccups. As he reached the chorus, my son was nestling his little head against my shoulder and I could feel him relax.

_Goodnight you moonlight ladies  
>Rockabye sweet baby James<br>Deep greens and blues are the colours I choose  
>Won't you let me go down in my dreams<br>And rockabye sweet baby James_

Martin and I looked at each other in stunned silence. We each put a hand on his back, as if to assure ourselves that he was still breathing and that he really was, at last, asleep. Our eyes met and I was sure Martin was thinking the same thing I was.

As the song finished, we carefully tucked him into his bassinet. Each of us touched him gently. "James," we said together, "your name is James."

The End


End file.
